


and i know i've kissed you before

by Good0mens



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Ficlet, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by a Mitski Song, It's William Shakespeare's Fault, Jealous Yusuf, Kinda, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, References to Shakespeare, Relationship Study, Sexual Content, Song: Pink in the Night (Mitski), Tumblr Prompt, confused Nicky, in which Mitski is more skilled than Shakespeare, its the Fair Youth thing, no i dont accept criticism on that opinion, of the minor sort, shakespeare bashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29959191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Good0mens/pseuds/Good0mens
Summary: “Nicolo,” Yusuf prompts softly as he slides into their bed for the night, mattress dipping slightly toward him. Nicolo can smell the oil Yusuf had used to bathe himself and he wills his heart to slow to a manageable pace.Without opening his eyes, Nicolo warns, “If you are about to recite another sonnet to me-”“Sick of them, are you?”Nicolo is, in fact, sick of sonnets.-In which Shakespearean sonnets act as a metaphor for their relationship, Yusuf is jealous for no reason and Nicolo remains a Horny bastard.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 27
Kudos: 220





	and i know i've kissed you before

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this](https://peachpitandpomegranate.tumblr.com/post/645262920810381312/hi-peach-you-absolute-angel-and-blessing-to-this) prompt: 7. And I know I’ve kissed you before, but / I didn’t do it right / Can I try again, try again, try again // pink in the night, mitski
> 
> cross-posted from tumblr

“Nicolò,” Yusuf prompts softly as he slides into their bed for the night, mattress dipping slightly toward him. Nicolò can smell the oil Yusuf had used to bathe himself and he wills his heart to slow to a manageable pace.

Without opening his eyes, Nicolò warns, “If you are about to recite another sonnet to me-”

“Sick of them, are you?”

Nicolò _is_ , in fact, sick of sonnets.

A beat passes and nothing is said, but he feels something carry between them all the same, something that tastes like slightly bitter misunderstanding. Yusuf is too tense next to him. The inch strip in front of Nicolò may as well be a canyon.

Yusuf spins poetic phrase like it’s second nature; Nicolò has always been in awe of the way he grasps language in his lilting, languid fingers and makes it bend to his will. But the words he’s been writing recently, these sonnets that are everywhere in London, lack a certain vulnerability that Nicolò finds himself missing.

He does not care for the quiet reservedness of it. He misses the raw brutality of Yusuf’s poetry that sounded like it was carved out, torn from Yusuf’s throat with a knife. The more Nicolò hears these English words drip from Yusuf’s tongue, with honey-saccharine and benign sentimentality, the more it grates on him, sinks into every last nerve and rankles it.

Nicolò turns his head. Yusuf’s stripped off his clothes, and Nicolò catches him catch the bob of his own adam’s apple with expectant eyes. Nicolò wishes it was his palm instead.

“I think you make this, _us_ , into something far prettier than it is.”

Yusuf looks at him oddly for a moment. Then his eyes set hard, and he’s rolling away from Nicolò.

Nicolò suppresses a sigh, knowing he has, yet again, said the wrong thing. Lately, he’s been wondering if anything he could say would be the right thing.

He stares and stares and stares at Yusuf’s back, the shadows that form in the dips and crevasses of his spine and shoulder blades, as the silence stretches from a pause to a deep recess between them.

“Is it me you are sick of, then,” Yusuf mutters at him, breaking Nicolò from his thoughts.

Nicolò frowns, sure he’s missed something. He goes to open his mouth, ask Yusuf what on _earth_ he’s talking about, when he continues.

“Perhaps you’d prefer another’s words, if mine are so inadequate.”

Oh. _Oh._

Nicolò reaches out and curls calloused fingers around Yusuf’s bicep. He tugs, gently, until Yusuf gives in and rolls back over. Then he lets Nicolò urge him, with a hand under his chin, to meet his bitter eyes. Guiltily, Nicolò finds he prefers the torment he sees in them to the recent haze of mildness.

Nicolò caresses his face, brushes those stars freckling his cheekbones.

“Can I kiss you?”

The question seems to catch Yusuf off-guard; he doesn’t answer for a long moment.

Nicolò attempts to tease. “Don’t think too hard about it,” he says, but it sounds flat and wrong to his ears - some errant worry worms its way in his gut at the possibility of Yusuf telling him no.

When Yusuf eventually nods, Nicolò’s sigh of relief is breathed into Yusuf’s lungs.

It starts off chaste, pink-lipped and closed-mouthed. Then Nicolò slides his hand around to Yusuf’s nape, grasping at the curls there, and kisses him again. Then again, this time tilting his head to slide their lips together deeper, and _there’s that noise_ , Nicolò thinks a little deliriously as he’s yanked in closer by the hip. It’s been far too long since he heard it.

When Nicolò dips his head to press more kisses down Yusuf’s neck, he hears Yusuf swear breathlessly.

“ _Nicolò_ , fuck- sometimes I don’t know whether I want to kiss you or kill you.”

Nicolò’s smile is a little feral on the edges as he nips at the skin under Yusuf’s jaw. He reaches down between Yusuf’s legs and revels in the ragged gasp he receives when his hand closes over Yusuf’s shaft.

“That sound,” Nicolò replies, lifting his face, “is far better than any sodden sonnet William could hope to craft.”

Nicolò could say any number of pretty, pithless platitudes that would only pale in comparison to his love, like washed-out peach or pastel – pithless as in weak, without substance, as in the stringing white lining of a citrus peel. What Nicolò feels for Yusuf is lush and languorous, rouge cheeks and raging reverie.

He knows precisely how many freckles kiss Yusuf’s cheeks and nose, as he now presses his lips to each one, and he knows how many kisses it takes for Yusuf to make that tiny, hitched keen in his throat and drag Nicolò in closer. He knows what makes Yusuf tick and hum and moan and laugh and god, his laughter is like sunlight.

He also knows what Yusuf’s blood tastes like in his mouth, and what his cock tastes like in his mouth; like right now, glistened tip soft, pink and flushed, Yusuf's hands and thighs spread out and out and out to make room for Nicolò's shoulders. He's sunk his teeth and blade and cock and love into him;

and as Nicolò teases and traces his fingers between Yusuf’s cheeks he knows, with intimate confidence, that there are no words he could fashion that would be as cutting as the sword he carries for Yusuf, in Yusuf’s name.

Then Yusuf tugs him down for another kiss, and there are no words left at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://peachpitandpomegranate.tumblr.com/)  
> if you liked this, leave a comment and let me know!


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